


Glukurrhiza

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Crete - freeform, LITERALLY, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Slice of Life, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: Glukurrhiza-glukus(sweet) andrhiza(root), commonly known as sweet root or licorice.a.k.a.Greece, Crete, sometime during the summer of 2019.





	1. Chapter 1

_Greece, Agios Pavlos, September ‘19._

 

A small seaside village in Crete, surrounded by blue water and tall mountains looming in the background. In the summer months the flora, spiky, dry bushes surrounded by sharp rocks spiky, is unforgiving. The wind blows daily. Olive trees offer shade and the afternoons force everyone to go inside to escape the heat. Nighttime gives some reprieve.

 

 

Raphael

 

 

Halfway across the world, cicadas buzz and screech like an electrical grid all through the day. At night, it simmers down, and sometimes stops altogether.

 

It’s the abrupt halt of white noise that wakes Raphael. One cicada croaks out its last dregs lamely, then falls quiet.

 

Despite the blinds and curtains, the room is brighter than he’s comfortable with.

 

The first night they’d arrived at the house just outside of Agios Pavlos, away from the tourists and locals, Raphael had shoved the bed as far away from the windows and the balcony.

 

Usually he sleeps in the single bedroom downstairs, but when they had arrived about a week ago, Lily had walked straight to the end of the hall and had wordlessly claimed the room for herself, because, almost unprecedented in time, Raphael had brought a guest along with them this time.

 

Raphael rolls onto his back and watches the ceiling as the light fades.

 

He twists his head to the left and confirms that Simon’s still asleep. As always, Simon has twisted himself into a pretzel during the day. Lying mostly on his stomach, his right arm’s slung from the bed, hanging limp, but somehow his entire body’s angled towards Raphael, one leg bent almost against his chest.

 

Raphael watches the shape with a grimace. It’ll be hell to wake.

 

Once the sun’s fully set and the sky’s lost all its warmth, Raphael scoots down the bed and perches on the edge, rubbing at his eyes. The tangy smell of blood mixed with sugary nougat wafts from downstairs. Lily must be having breakfast.

 

Raphael walks to the balcony and opens the doors. He steps out on the warm tiles and leans against the railing, taking in the view of the wild sea. A few cicadas angrily erupt in screeches, like a half sussed late night fight.

 

On the little table next to him there’s a pack of filters tips, rizla licorice rolling paper, and a small pouch of tobacco. When he was a teenager in the fifties it was normal to smoke and Raphael didn’t think about it twice. No one did. Then came the cancer and the research and the pictures of blackened and shrivelled lungs, but by that time Raphael’s lungs were dead anyways.

 

People still complain about the stink, and admittedly, it soaks into your clothes and clings to your hair, but once in while, Raphael will indulge. One of those times is when he’s here. Simon hates it, but Raphael’s already placing the tobacco in a neat line on the paper, licking a strip and rolling it shut.

 

Besides, he thinks with a grunt, it’s not as if he’s actually wearing his suits here. He leans his head back against the white-washed wall.

 

Simon stirs in the background.

 

It’s the licorice he can’t stay away from.

 

 

 

Simon

 

It’s the damn smell of those disgusting cigarettes that wakes him up. Not even Raphael reluctantly admitting in a steadfast voice that Simon’s smell has something similar to it, spicy and sweet, softens him to the idea.

 

“It’s disgusting. It smells,” Simon had whined.

 

“Always so contrary.”

 

“I’m serious! You look like a common villain. Don’t come near me when you’re smoking that crap.”

 

Raphael hadn’t even blinked from where he was bent over his desk working. “Fine. I won’t come near you.”

 

But the damn smell. Icky and sticky! It’s horror having Raphael’s lips anywhere near him after he smokes. It leaves a wet trail of tart-tasting salt all over his skin.

 

Simon groans loudly and tries to yell out – it comes out cracked – “DAMN IT, Raphael!”

 

He hears a soft snort. “Accept it, baby.”

 

“Stop calling me that.”

 

“Sure, baby.”

 

By the time Raphael’s finally walked back in, Simon’s mostly fallen asleep and the sky’s jet black except for the stars. They shine brightly out here far away from the town, Simon had been pleased to notice on their first night in Agios Pavlos. He is shit at astronomy and can barely identify the big dipper. Of course Raphael had effortlessly pointed out Orion and half of the goddamned sky with a cocky smile.

 

The bed dips and Simon’s momentarily confused, thinking the absurd thought that there’s a big dipper in the bed, stars staking their claim. He blames the early morning for incongruent comparisons –early evening!

 

“No. NO. Absolutely not,” Simon warns when Raphael drifts close and places a hand on his back. “It’s hot as hell on this damned island. Do _not_ put your – _damn it_!” Raphael’s sneaks his hand around Simon’s waist and pulls himself closer still, pushing his forehead against Simon’s shoulder blade.

 

Simon sighs and it’s quiet for a while until Raphael murmurs something.

 

“Huh?”

 

“ _Glukkurhiza_.”

 

“Uh… I repeat, huh?”

 

“It means sweet root. _Glukus_. _Rhiza_. Dioscorides named it.”

 

“That – okay. Self taught astronomer and walking herbal dictionary. Anything else you wanna share? And,” Simon yawns slowly and slumps into the mattress, “I still don’t understand.”

 

“Sweet root. Licorice.” To prove his point, Raphael bites into the skin of his back, gripping Simon’s waist tightly and keeping it in place when he jumps.

 

“Oh, man,” he grouses. “You’re obsessed with that stuff. You do realize you can buy sweet root too, right? Like an actual twig. A stick. A stick of sweet root, which you can just suck—,” _suck_ , “and, uhm, eat? Without the smoke and … tobacco…”

 

“I like it better.”

 

Just to be an ass, surely, Raphael punctures his skin, slowly, dragging it out at an excruciatingly pace, and only when Simon lets out an inquisitive mumble does he go in for a small taste.

 

Simon is not wide awake. It’s so early. The heat makes it difficult to sleep through the day.

 

It should be weird. It should be _very_ weird. Having a vampire’s fangs stuck right below your shoulder blade like a mosquito? Not exactly where he thought he’d end up.

 

 

 

 

Raphael

 

 

Raphael lets go of him and goes downstairs to have breakfast with Lily. At Simon’s request, they don’t smoke inside the house.

 

“Millennials exile us out to the porch,” says Lily. “What’s next? I think you’ve gone soft, Raphael.”

 

“ _Claro che si,_ ” he replies.

 

 

 

Simon

 

 

Around twelve in the evening, waves crashing against the shore and moonlight out, Simon bounces down the stairs and lets out a loud sigh at the sight of the two of them sitting outside on the rickety old chairs smoking, drinking, and playing a game of checkers. They’re the kind of chairs that give your ass splinters, he _knows_.

 

“This again?” He gestures at the board. “Can’t we go do something?”

 

Lily moves a piece on the board. “We’re about two miles away from civilisation. We have no car. It’s late. The locals stays up late, but by the time we get there, it’ll be dead. Maybe you should get up earlier.”

 

“Come on!”

 

Raphael curses at the board. “ _Mierda_.” He moves his white piece and Lily snatches it off with a small smile. He turns to Simon. “I warned you that there was little to do here. Yet you chose to come.”

 

“I should’ve asked Clary to come or something. At least she’s entertaining.”

 

“Oh, yes. What a grand idea.”

 

Lily takes another white piece and reaches the edge of the board. “Double _mierda_.” Raphael returns one of her pieces and leans forward, hand under his chin.

 

“Why do you keep playing this?”

 

“Strategy,” Lily says while Raphael finally looks up at him and says, “Sit down. Eat.”

 

Begrudgingly, Simon takes the third chair. Bits of loose straw poke at his thighs through his boxers. For revenge, Simon takes Raphael’s glass instead of grabbing one for his own and drinks, then promptly splutters and coughs. “Oh, my god! What is in here?” He holds the glass away from him like it’s a disease.

 

Lily laughs at him. Raphael is focused on the board.

 

“Ouzo,” she says, pointing at the small bottle at the foot of the table. Simon bends down to look at the label and bops back up.

 

“Boozin’ this early in the morning? Smoking those ridiculous rizla things? You’re not gritty bohemians or tortured French writers!” When there’s no response, he shouts, “Raphael! Oi! Earth to!”

 

Raphael reluctantly turns to him. “What? I’m thinking.”

 

“Suits and shirt dresses! Polished shoes and breast pocket handkerchiefs! A damn rolex!”

 

“You’re just listing nouns at this point.”

 

Simon gestures empathically.

 

“And now gesturing.”

 

“Raphael!”

 

“Baby.”

 

“St _op_ that.”

 

“Uh-oh,” Lily adds. She moves a piece. “Your turn, Raphael.”

 

Simon groans loudly and walks back upstairs.

 

He hears Raphael ask, “Soft?”

 

 

 

Raphael

 

 

The next evening Simon comes stomping downstairs much like the day before.

 

Once again Lily and Raphael are sitting at the small wooden table outside playing checkers.

 

Simon walks over, snatches the cigarette out of Raphael’s mouth and with a painful shove, replaces it with something hard. Its rough texture chafes against his lips, but softens a little. The taste is odd at first, but the more he waits, the more he enjoys it.

 

“Here you go! Your _precious_ gluriza or something.”

 

He shoves aside his surprise and ignores Lily’s stunned look, and sucks on the licorice root.

 

“Mh.”

 

“Mh? That’s all I get? _Mh_?” Simon pulls out the chair almost violently and plops down.

 

Raphael doesn’t smile, but is sincere in his answer. “Thank you, baby.” He gets up, places a brief kiss on Simon’s hair, almost forgetting his unease about this kind of thing, and goes to get another drink.

 

 

 

 

Simon

 

Much to Simon’s aggravation, Raphael doesn’t stop smoking the whole three weeks they spend in Crete, despite Raphael assuring him he appreciates the sweet root.

 

 

 

Raphael

 

But why would he? Raphael has never claimed to live soberly, and has no wish for doing so. Now he has the smokes, the sticks, _and_ Simon, a bottomless supply of sweet, sweet licorice.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Greece, Agios Pavlos, September ‘19.

 

Despite the lazy nights in bed and the amiable checkers games downstairs, we’d have two liars on our hands if they said that _all was well_. The cooling breeze after the setting sun, the endless stretch of beach and rock, the peace, there’s only so much time you can spend together in close quarters without bursting.

 

Simon

 

Simon is pleased to notice the usual smell of cigarettes is absent when he wakes up. However, the bed is missing a Santiago, and his shoulder is suspiciously sore. Reaching back he brushes against a crusty scab, scratches it open and stares at his bloodied finger. Sure enough, he can feel a second scab.

 

“That little gnat!”

 

He jumps out of bed and flings open the blinds, half falling out of the window. It is a long way to fall down. The sun has just set behind the mountain and the sea and sky mingle into one grey purplish colour. The heat has gone down a little but the cicadas are still screaming.

 

After a quick check around the house, Simon has confirmed his suspicions. Lily is still lying in bed, snoring slightly, but Raphael—

 

He closes the door quietly behind him and makes his way down the long path to the beach. Damn! Why hadn’t he trained his nose a little better? Raphael was down here somewhere, but it could take a while to find him.

 

Grains of sand wedge themselves between his toes and burn painfully against his plastic flip-flops as he descends the hill. This is taking way too long. Why are the only houses all the way up the hill?

 

Inhaling deeply, he tries to catch a scent, but the only thing he smells is sea salt and goat dung. Lovely combination.

 

Once he’s made it down, he passes by the one – and only – café next to the beach. Kostas, and old waiter with a beer belly and brilliant blue eyes, is already closing up now that the tourists have left for the day. He flips the chairs upside down on the table and looks up when Simon approaches.

 

“Hey, Kostas!”

 

“ _Calispera_ , Simon.”

 

“I feel like a broken record here, but, uhm, have you seen—,”

 

“Yes,” he interrupts. He points over to the little path along a rocky edge that leads to a secluded beach a five minute walk from here. “Today he chose the rocks, I think.”

 

“Well, thanks. Gracias.”

 

“That is Spanish.”

 

“Oh, right. Habit, sorry.” Simon gives him a flailing wave and sets off to the rocks. He slips a few times trying to avoid stingy thorns, still as uncoordinated as ever, and finally spots

 

 

Raphael

 

“Raphael!”

 

Ah, damn. Raphael had been quite sure Simon would be asleep for at least another hour or two. Now he’s standing right behind him.

 

“Morning, Simon.”

 

“Don’t _morning_ me. I thought we had a deal.”

 

There really is no excuse. Raphael has been running out of excuses from the moment Simon came barging into his life –correction, ever since Raphael was foolish enough to barge into his. What is he supposed to do, here? Admit that Simon is basically an enticing present, with daylighter blood he can’t help but siphon off, and a smell he can’t stop burying his nose in? No, Simon’s obnoxious attitude is bad enough as it is.

 

“Hello? Raphael!”

 

“I heard you.”

 

“Look at me.”

 

Reluctantly, he does, and while he embeds little half-moons into his palms, he admits, “Yes, we had a deal.”

 

Simon nods emphatically to prove his point, like a four-year-old, and turns his back, twists his arms so that he can point both index fingers at the two puncture wounds on his shoulder. “Again!” he shouts.

 

He sinks down into the sand next to Raphael and sighs deeply. A wasp buzzes around their heads. “I told you to ask me first. Why’s that so hard? Hey Simon, can I get some sun juice? Hey Simon, I’d really like to suck some blood. Hey Simon, I’d appreciate—”

 

“You were asleep.”

 

“Yeah, that’s _another_ thing.” Simon had a flair for the dramatic. He never stopped moving his face or hands when he talked. “You are entering Creepyville again. I thought you’d left that place. Don’t chew on me when I’m asleep. It’s weird.”

 

Raphael rolls his eyes. “I don’t _chew_ , for heaven’s sake.”

 

“Bite, chew, who cares. Your teeth on my skin, it’s the same result. And you need to ask me first—,”

 

“I wanted to go out and you were asleep so I went for the obvious solution.”

 

“Obvious!” Simon scoffs.

 

“Yes, obvious. Don’t be melodramatic, Simon. I just wanted to feel some daylight. Had a drink with Kostas and played a friendly game of cards. I want to enjoy my time off. Do you have a problem with that?”

 

Back in New York, Raphael barely had any time to himself. It was the downside to being the clan leader. He’s not going to hold back now. So sue him if he had a little taste of daylighter blood without asking first.

 

“Besides,” Raphael adds with a smirk, “it’s not as if you never get high on my blood, and never so much as hesitate with that.”

 

Simon always tried not to blush, but he was just unfortunate in that area. Even with so little blood running through his veins, it rushes to his cheeks in record time. Raphael thinks of the cherries he used to eat as a child.

 

“That’s different,” Simon insists. He grabs a handful of sand and flings it away.

 

“Why?”

 

“I —I don’t know. It just is.”

 

“It isn’t. We both go after what we want. Drink up, smoke up, whatever it may be.”

 

The light is almost gone now. A few stars are shining. “Yeah, but you don’t ask. I do. I want—” Simon looks at him in askance and hesitates. Raphael surmises Simon is about to say something important, but instead, he finishes lamely, “It’s not very nice.”

 

“Nice? _Querido_ , I’m not _nice_. If you want nice and sweet, I suggest you run right back to your Shadowhunter sweetheart,” he says coolly.

 

That usually shuts Simon down.

 

 

Simon

 

It’s not the comments about Clary, though it probably is a little bit, but was pisses him off is the overblown self-confidence Raphael never completely lets go of. Rarely when they’re alone. Never when they’re in public. When his defences go up, Raphael just gets cockier. Simon has only really ever seen him vulnerable with Lily, and it makes him jealous and mean.

 

He sighs. “This again. Do we have to talk about her everyday?”

 

“Why not,” Raphael shrugs, “you already do, practically. I’m throwing in my two cents, baby.”

 

“Ugh” is the only thing he can come up with. Is it his young age or is everyone this ineloquent when they’re this frustrated? So he just repeats it a few times and punches Raphael’ thigh with every _ugh_ , “Ugh, ugh, ugh!”

 

Just to be spiteful, he adds, “And by the way, you got sunburned. You look like a fried lobster.” It’s true. A little bit. There’s a faint trace of pink on the bridge of Raphael's nose, on his cheekbones, and on his chest. The rest of him is unfairly tan, and Simon gets a glimpse of what Raphael must’ve looked like when he was alive. He smells of the sand and sea and apart from the hiccup that is Clary, looks utterly at peace.

 

Raphael has the gall to smile. “It’ll heal.”

**Author's Note:**

> When a person is depressed, you need a little pick me up. I'm picking myself up, bitch.
> 
> Probs a little out of character?


End file.
